Unfinished Business
by turnedthepage
Summary: Sherlock's plan was to survive the fall. But things don't always go according to plan. And now he's stuck here, unable to touch the one thing he was willing to die for. Ghost fic. Slashy, Johnlock of course.
1. Observation

**Unfinished Business.**

**Chapter One. Observation.**

John stood over Sherlock's grave, eyes closed as he was unsure where to look. Couldn't look down, knowing what hid beneath the ground. Couldn't look ahead, not with that name engraved in neat letters across a gleaming headstone. Couldn't look up, with the sky that had no right to be so bright on such a dark day. And he certainly couldn't look left or right, because of who he knew would not be at his side.

So he kept his eyes closed for just a few seconds longer, before he finally let himself say what he wanted to. When he opened his eyes, he forced himself to look ahead, but he couldn't really see anything. It was like his vision had turned off, in favor of seeing the memories playing in his head. And finally, he was able to begin talking.

He felt a bit strange, monologuing to no one. Because even though he knew Sherlock's body lie a few feet under him, Sherlock wasn't there. He was talking to a rock, and he knew that, but this was the only place he could think to do it.

John said his words, not bothering to keep his voice from breaking. He tried to explain to Sherlock how much he'd meant to him, how much he cared about him. How much he missed him.

Before it became too much for him, he begged Sherlock for one more miracle. Because if anyone could pull it off, it'd be Sherlock Holmes. "Don't be," he paused, momentarily unable to even comprehend the word, "dead." He pleaded, not really hoping, just trying his best to express the thing he wished for the most in that moment.

He walked away holding his head as high as he could, feeling it was the best way to counteract the darkness that was pressing down on him. He couldn't give into it, couldn't give up on his miracle.

When he found himself back at his flat, he wondered what he was doing there. He hadn't been able to go back to Baker Street since he lost Sherlock, but suddenly he felt it calling to him. 221 B was his _home_. He knew it would feel empty, and sad, without his flatmate, but he knew he could never live anywhere else.

As he laid down in the small bed that had never felt like his, he decided to go back tomorrow to discuss the rent with Mrs. Hudson. He'd never be able to have another flatmate, he knew this, so the price would probably go up. But he didn't care. He needed it.

X

Sherlock stood a good distance away, watching the small crowd that had gathered round his grave for some reason or other. He didn't bother to hide himself, they couldn't see him.

He watched intently as everyone made their peace with him, examining the entire ordeal until there were only two people left. His landlady and his flatmate.

His lips involuntarily twitched as he listened to them discuss their anger with him, knowing they didn't mean any of it. Mostly, anyway. And then he watched Mrs. Hudson walk away, leaving only John standing over the freshly filled in grave.

A part of him wanted to move closer, to observe his friend more carefully. So analyze every movement, every word that fell from his lips.

But, for once, he didn't want to intrude.

He did listen, though. He heard every confession, every plea, every tremor in his voice. John was saying them to him, after all. The least he could do was listen.

Watching the doctor march away from the grave was like watching a movie. He'd suddenly gone from broken man who'd lost a friend to steady soldier who could face any fate.

He followed him of course, silent an invisible, always a few feet behind. Followed him everywhere.

And he sat next to him in his apartment, watching him constantly flicker between pain and resilience. He was relieved when the man climbed into his bed, since it had been almost three days since he had slept. At least he was finally trying to get some rest.

Of all the times Sherlock found himself bored with just sitting around, he was fascinated with a sleeping John Watson. He'd seen him sleep before, of course, since they had lived together for quite a while. But it was different now.

Because now he ran no risk of disturbing him.


	2. He Speaks

**Unfinished Business.**

**Chapter Two. He Speaks.**

John woke up a few times throughout the night. He never saw Sherlock sitting by his side, naturally. But when he finally woke for the morning he did, thankfully, feel somewhat rested.

He dressed himself before heading out, skipping breakfast as per usual for the last few days. He just couldn't stomach anything early in the morning anymore.

Sherlock watched him, finally knowing how John had felt every time he went without eating.

As usual he followed John through the city. It still felt strange, being the follower rather than the leader, but it wasn't as if he had much choice.

He almost smiled as he sat with John and Mrs. Hudson, listening to them making arrangements for the flat. It went well, John would be moving back in the next day.

Sherlock wondered if this was really the best decision for John. Yes, he knew it was his home, _their_ home, but would he be okay? Would he be able to handle the silence? Looking over to see Sherlock's chair empty? Would he be alright with that?

Of course the chair _wouldn't_ be empty. But John wouldn't know that.

After leaving Mrs. Hudson, John got a cab. Sherlock wondered where they were off to, but his curiosity was only piqued more when John told the driver to take him to Barts.

The drive was painfully quiet. Well, if Sherlock could feel pain he was sure he would have in that moment.

It was the first time he'd ever had the urge to reach out and touch something. He could walk and sit and lean against walls, but when it came to actually _touching_ things, it was impossible.

He'd never had reason to touch before. But in that moment, the one thing on his mind was touching John. He didn't know what he hoped to achieve by touching him, didn't know which one of them needed it more, but he wanted it more than anything.

Lifting his hand, he studied himself. He saw the flicker of his skin, almost translucent depending on the light. Then he reached out, intending to cover John's hand with his own. Instead his hand simply slipped through, settling on the seat. His and John's hands occupying the same space, but not touching.

John started and quickly drew his hand away, frowning at the spot it had previously been laying on. He rubbed it for a moment, as if trying to warm it, before placing both hands carefully in his lap.

Sherlock was disappointed. But he didn't really have time to contemplate his disappointment as they arrived at their destination. He watched John pay the cabbie and followed him inside Barts. Followed him all the way up to the roof.

If it was possible, Sherlock began to feel cold. He stayed close to John, watching him carefully as they neared the edge. Both looked over, peering down at everything below. Sherlock began to worry, reaching out to warn John but remembering that he couldn't touch him only elevated his worry.

But John surprised him, turning around and sitting down, leaning against the ledge of the roof for support.

Even though Sherlock didn't have to breathe, he let out a breath, rolled his eyes, and sat next to John. He watched him put his head back against the concrete, closing his eyes and sighing.

"What do I do now?" John asked quietly. "Everything is sorted, Sherlock, but I still feel like there's more left to do. Like it wasn't supposed to happen this way."

"It wasn't," Sherlock said. It wasn't the first time he'd talked to John, all the while knowing he couldn't hear him. But it was the first time they'd talked about him.

"I just... I miss you _so_ much. I wanted to solve crimes with you until we couldn't anymore."

Sherlock smiled even though he felt it inappropriate. "I know."

"But I guess, in a way, that's what happened," John continued. "I mean, you're... gone. And I've learned a thing or two, so maybe I could continue on my own, but that's the thing. I'd be alone in it. With you gone it just... well, you know."

"You could find a new partner," Sherlock suggested, even though his selfish side would never be happy if he would.

To Sherlock's surprise, John shook his head. "No use trying to find someone else. It'd never be the same."

"I'm sorry."

John opened his eyes, sitting forward a bit. "It's not your fault, though. I want you to know that, wherever you are, that I don't blame you. Can't say I'm not upset, because that would be a lie, but... God, Sherlock, sometimes I feel like you're still here."

Sherlock moved so he was in front of John, looking into eyes that couldn't look back. "I am here."

"And I don't know what that means. I don't know if some part of me thinks you're still alive. Or if it's just that I can't stop thinking about you, all that 'people live on in your memories' stuff."

"Why can't you hear me?" Sherlock wondered aloud. "Why am I here if you can't interact with me?"

"Unfinished business," a new, heartbreakingly recognizable voice came from behind him.

Sherlock stood and whirled around, coming, for the second time in this place, face-to-face with Jim Moriarty.


	3. Touching Each Other

**AN: So I want to say thanks for all the positive feedback for this! Just a fair warning, this is rated M for a reason, (a few actually: dark themes, talk of suicide, gore, etc.) so please don't read this if any of that bothers you, I understand that some of this can be triggering and I'd really hate to upset someone over it. That being said, there won't be anything extremely graphic in the sex area, as per ff's rules.**

**Unfinished Business.**

**Chapter Three. Touching Each Other.**

"You can see me," Sherlock squinted at the man standing in front of him.

Jim shrugged. "'Course I can. And you can see me. Isn't it glorious?"

"What do you want?"

"I want the same thing I wanted when I was alive." Jim winked, suddenly flashing forward, as close to Sherlock's face as he could get without actually touching him. "I want to see you burn."

"You've already killed me," Sherlock pointed out. "What more can you do?"

Jim smiled and flicked his eyes toward John, causing Sherlock to look over. John was hunched over his mobile phone, making a sad face at it. Sherlock barely had time to wonder if he was reading over old texts before Moriarty ran up to him and kicked the device right out of his hand.

"What the hell?" John stared at his hand, then at the phone laying a few feet away. He stood and retrieved it, reclaiming his seat by the ledge.

"You can touch," Sherlock said loudly.

"Now you're catching on."

Sherlock blinked, eyeing John to see that he was alright. Then he nodded at Moriarty. "Do it again."

Jim got a mischievous look on his face, his crooked smile telling Sherlock everything he needed to know.

"Ah, you can't. So it takes a lot of energy to become tangible," Sherlock realized. This meant there was a possibility of touching John. If he could learn how, that is. "Probably focused on a single part of your body, am I right? It would be a waste of your energy to make your entire being tangible."

Moriarty smiled again, different this time. "You think you're so clever, Sherlock. But you can't even figure out why you're here. Why I'm here."

"You said 'unfinished business'. One theory regarding spirits is that they're trapped here if they died before accomplishing something, something big, something that was a major part of their lives." He looked toward John again. Of course, John had become a bigger part of his life than he'd ever imagined, but what did he have left to do? "What unfinished business do you have?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out." With a snap of his finger, Moriarty disappeared.

Sherlock turned around, making sure Moriarty was really gone before returning to John, kneeling in front of him like before. "John," he said quietly. Then louder, almost a yell, "John!"

John lifted his head, scowling as he looked around. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. "Right. I'm getting out of here before I start seeing things as well as hearing them."

Oh. So he had heard him. Sherlock widened his eyes and ran to catch up with John, who was walking rather quickly ahead. "John, can you hear me?"

No response. He followed the man down and out of the building. When they began walking on the street, Sherlock walked as closely behind John as he could, so as to avoid walking through the other bodies passing by them. He didn't care if they got a chill, but was still unsettled by the fact that he couldn't touch anything.

Not to mention that Moriarty was out there, somewhere. He could appear again at any moment.

And he could touch John, and Sherlock would be completely powerless against it.

He followed John into a small café. It wasn't one they'd gone to before. Not together, anyway. When john chose a corner table away from everyone else, Sherlock was relieved. At least John wouldn't be distracted by the other customers.

He sat across from him, wondering why he could sit on the chair and lean forward on the table, but when he reached forward, his hand slipped right through the menu blocking John's face from him.

A voice whispered in his ear, "This world works in mysterious ways."

Sherlock didn't even bother looking this time, knowing who it was. Of course he would show up again. No use waiting, was there? Moriarty's arm slithered around his shoulder and flicked the tall salt shaker, causing it to fall over.

John was startled, his eyes flicking to the tipped over shaker. He stood it up again and hung his head, rubbing his temples.

And now he'd had enough of this teasing. "How can you touch?"

Jim leaned forward, letting his chin rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "We can touch each other, isn't that enough?"

"You want to tell me," Sherlock sighed, apparently even death was boring. "You wouldn't be taunting me with it if you didn't."

"Oh, no, that wouldn't be any fun at all."

"Exactly. I'm ordinary, remember?"

Jim puckered his lips to one side, standing and looking down at Sherlock. "We both have things to take care of, Sherlock. You offered to meet me in Hell, so I refuse to leave without you."

Sherlock scowled. "So this is about me?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "So self-centered, always thinking everything is about you." He lifted his arm and straightened it, laying his palm atop John's head and lightly ruffling his hair.

John reflexively reached up and felt for whatever had just touched him, but he found nothing, and proceeded to pretend to scratch his head so no one gave him a funny look.

"What do you want with John?"

Another rebellious shake of Moriarty's head. "You just don't get it. It's not about John. There is no John Watson. And there is no Sherlock Holmes. There is only Watson and Holmes, one entity linked together. It's disgusting, really."

"How dull. You're using him to get to me. You've done that before."

"Twice," he held up two fingers. "And you know what they say, third time's the charm."

"You want to beat me, isn't that sweet," Sherlock cooed mockingly. "That's why you're stuck here, because you thought you'd beaten me, but you didn't."

Jim's eyes darkened. "You're dead."

"So are you," he hissed. "And you can't leave until you finish the last thing you set out to do..."

"Now you're getting it."

"Suicides."

"Beautiful isn't it? People just killing themselves for you. So much more conflict, so much more fun."

Sherlock ignored the comment, contemplating. "Suicides are stuck here to resolve the last thing they left unresolved. But then why am I here? The last thing I did was try to save John and I did it. I saved him. It can't be because you're stuck here, you're only stuck here because of me."

Moriarty shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He leaned in closer to Sherlock as he told him, "It doesn't matter why you're here. The fact is that you _are_ here, and that _I _am here, and that I'm going to do everything in my power to hurt you while you are unable to do anything other than watch." Then he backed away enough for Sherlock to see John leaving the café. "Better keep an eye on him."

Sherlock didn't even wait for him to disappear before he stood up and walked after John.


	4. Pressure

**Unfinished Business.**

**Chapter Four. Pressure.**

A week had passed since Moriarty revealed himself to Sherlock. In that time, Sherlock never left John's side. Although it was pointless, really, as he was helpless to protect him.

He followed John to work every day, standing silently in the background as he worked with his patients. He'd never really seen Dr. Watson in practice. Yes, he'd used his skills to help with cases, his doctor persona obviously taking over. But watching him work this way was different.

The flat was mostly silent. John didn't seem to go out much, and when he did it was usually just to do shopping. Sherlock went with him, of course. Always. He couldn't stop himself from wondering, as he traversed the aisles with him, why he'd never gone before.

Yes, it was frightfully dull, and no, he wouldn't have enjoyed the activity itself. But it would have been more time he spent with John, it would have been more time they'd had together before they couldn't be together anymore.

Of course it was fine for him. He could spend as much time as he wanted in John's company now. His brain hadn't been muted in any way since he'd died, but he somehow knew how to deal with the thoughts constantly buzzing around. He no longer had bodily needs, so that probably contributed to his new mental comfort; he always did become annoyed with the demands of life.

John, on the other hand, didn't have the same luxury. It was probably harder on him now, all these things to think about and nowhere to go with them. No way to turn off the pain. While Sherlock was spending every second with him, John was always alone.

That night John cried in his sleep. There were no screams, no choking sobs. Just a steady stream of tears trickling down an otherwise unaffected face.

Sherlock watched, sitting by his side. Since he moved back into 221B he hadn't looked in Sherlock's old room, climbing the stairs to his own every night.

He itched to reach out and comfort John, but there were so many things stopping him. John wouldn't be able to feel it, for one. Would he even want him to? Dead or not, would he accept that kind of gesture from someone like Sherlock? Someone who usually didn't see the point of them.

John sat up with a start, waking suddenly from a less than restful sleep. He looked to each side in confusion, then realized he was at home, in his own bed, and sighed. He reached up to rub his eyes and cringed when he found the wet evidence of his nightmare. "Shit." He could no longer remember what he'd been dreaming, but he knew what it must have been about. Or who, rather.

He sat still for a minute, squeezing his eyes shut, letting his arms lie limply at his sides.

Sherlock reached out his arm, hesitating just above the skin of John's bare soldier. He wanted so badly to be able to do something. Not even to touch him, but to just let him know that he was being watched over. To give him some feeling of comfort.

He thought about Moriarty's demonstration of touch, and tried to focus all of his energy into his hand, willing it to concentrate in his fingertips. He visualized himself touching John, tried to give his hand weight, imagined how John would feel under his touch.

The hand moved forward, moving right through its target.

John opened his eyes and jumped out of the bed. Sherlock frowned, but followed him to the bathroom.

There he attempted to wash his face, cleaning the sticky saltwater from his skin. He leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. He laughed at himself, knowing that he could wash as many times as he liked, but he'd never be able to get rid of the bags under his eyes or the new wrinkles in his skin. Still, he was awake now, no chance of going back to sleep, so he decided to take a shower.

He undressed, completely unaware that he was being watched.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off him. They'd seen each other naked quite a few times when he was alive, not that John didn't often deny it or try to forget it. He supposed he should feel guilty for watching like this now, though. Now when he thought he actually had some privacy. Now when he believed there wasn't the possibility of having his flatmate barge in on him.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't barging. He'd been there the whole time. He usually did give him the space he thought he already had, letting him be alone with his thoughts. But this time he stayed.

He watched.

It was fascinating, to see John's hands slide over himself, the soap bubbles looking almost childish on him.

Something flickered at the edge of Sherlock's vision.

"Pathetic," Moriarty chuckled as Sherlock turned to face him. "Why do you insist on staying with him? He's so weak. So breakable."

Sherlock glared at him. "Says the man who killed himself once he thought he'd been beaten."

"Oh, and yours was an honourable death?"

"I died to protect him."

"How romantic."

Sherlock's glare tightened with anger. "Your assumptions don't interest me."

"_My_ assumptions? Oh, Sherlock, you poor thing. You really are just a stupid, ordinary human being."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I am completely ordinary, we've been over this before."

Jim smirked. "Getting bored?" He stood by the sink as John stepped out of the shower. "I might have some entertainment to offer."

They waited in silence as John lightly toweled himself off, then wrapped the cloth around his waist out of habit. He looked up to check himself in the mirror again, making sure he didn't look like he'd been bawling in his sleep, when Moriarty smiled wide and his reflection flashed in the mirror.

John gasped and fell back, glad the wall was there to keep him from crashing onto the floor. His wide eyes looked back to the mirror, no sign of Jim Moriarty anywhere in his bathroom. _Obviously_, John thinks to himself. "Fuck," he says quietly as he slouches against the wall, breathing deeply.

"Wasn't that fun?" Jim asked, arms thrown up in excitement, while he wore a face of absolute control.

Sherlock resisted the urge to scream at him. He was good at that. "Is that all you're going to do? Frighten him?" One could only hope.

Jim shook his head, looking disappointed. "Playing dumb, Sherlock? You should know better."

"He never did anything to you."

"Didn't he?" He put on a thoughtful face, looking to the side to give an illusion of contemplation.

Sherlock kept his face stiff. "It won't work. He's not afraid of anything."

"I'm not trying to scare him." Jim stepped close to Sherlock, so close that he'd be able to feel his breath. If he had any. "I'm going to torture him. It'll be so beautiful, you'll see. He won't know what's real and what's not by the time I'm done with him. All it takes is one tiny crack. One small break in his resolve and just a little pressure until he's shattering completely. And you, you who refuse to leave him, will do nothing but watch as he turns to dust."


End file.
